that at least seven of these beds had been occupied with seriously ill patients.
When she walked back into the atrium she was so tense mat the gentle whoosh of an elevator door opening five feet away made her jump. And when she saw Tom step out she was so relieved she wanted to hug him.
"Thanks for coming," he said warmly, as if he were hosting nothing more unusual than a barbecue.
"What's going on, Tom? Where are the guards?"
A shrug. "I wanted to keep this strictly between us."
"What about the patients?"
Tom smiled and ushered her into the elevator with him. He pushed the button for the Mendel Suite and said, "The official line is that they all responded extremely well to their treatments. And I for one am not going to deny it. Two have already gone home, and the others are now in Massachusetts General undergoing observation and tests. But I'm pretty sure that soon they'll be allowed to go home as well."
"
You
made them well?"
He smiled and nodded. "But I'll never admit it. It's vital that no one knows I have the gift. I got a bit carried away this morning, but in the future I'll be less dramatic."
"Is that what you wanted to show me?"
The elevator stopped and the door opened.
Tom shook his head. "No. That's just how I could personally deal with the genes. Hide the cures under the guise of conventional treatments."
"What about the genes in general? What about the other vials?"
Tom led the way out of the elevator and turned toward the door to the Mendel Suite. "Follow me."
As Tom put his hand into the DNA scanner and Jasmine watched the door to the suite open, he began to talk about the genes: "Just think how the serum works for a moment. The viral vector is designed to insert the Nazareth genes into an individual's stem cells. That means the person will have the ability to heal for his natural life. But these individuals can't give their gift to anybody else, only the benefits. And since the genes aren't inserted into their germ
cells they can't hand them down to their children. The gift therefore dies with them."
Jasmine followed Tom through the door and blinked as the sensors triggered the tungsten bulbs to come on, revealing the large cryopreserve bank on the left, and the gleaming expanse of white and glass that made up the main lab ahead of them.
Jasmine frowned and said, "But the gift wouldn't die with them if they had the technology to clone their Nazareth genes, or if somebody else with the know-how cloned the genes from them--with or without their permission."
Tom nodded. He had clearly thought of this already. "Yes, you're right. But to control the spread of the miracle strain we'd need to ensure that anybody who carried the Christ genes was trustworthy, and that their possession of the gift was kept secret."
As Jasmine followed Tom through the eerily deserted main lab, she tried to think where he was leading her, both in terms of what he was saying and where they were going. "Carriers of the gene would also need to be extremely responsible," she said, "or else they might abuse their power. They could only use the gift when it was absolutely necessary, and they could never tell anyone about it."
"Or charge for it," added Tom. "That would be the worst abuse of all."
"Tell Jack that."
Tom chuckled. "Oh, Jack's okay. He'd understand."
She followed him around the corner to enter the first security door, and walked into the Crick Laboratory. The lights were on and when she glanced at the refrigerated cabinet she could see that the tray containing the twelve serums was missing. Jeez, she thought, he's already destroyed them.
As they approached the glass wall of the Crick Conference Room she thought she heard voices. She turned to Tom and opened her mouth to ask him what was going on, but he just smiled and put his finger to his lips.
"Don't worry," he said, "it'll all become clear soon."
The voices were more audible now, the volume low but their tone excited. Most spoke English but in an array of
accents--from Indian to Australian to Russian to African to Japanese to French. What the hell was Tom up to?
Then she saw them through the tinted glass of the conference room. There must have been over ten men and women milling around the large table. They were helping themselves to coffee and snacks from a trolley at the far end of the room, by the brooding Genescope.
"Who are they?" she asked.
"Look," he said, pointing through the glass, "surely you recognize some of them." He singled out a short dark-haired man with large hangdog eyes, who was talking energetically with a tall Indian woman in a sari. "That's Jean Luc Petit, the doctor who first gave me the idea for Cana. He's a good man--an extremely responsible man, to use your expression. The woman he's speaking to is Dr. Mitra Mukerjee from Calcutta. You met her last year at the cancer seminar we held here. You remember! You liked her. You said she had integrity."
Jasmine nodded slowly, still not fully realizing what she was seeing, but yes, she could recognize most of them now. Indeed, many of them were famous: Dr. Joshua Matwatwe, the AIDS pioneer from Nairobi; Dr. Frank Hollins, the radical heart specialist from Sydney; and Professor Sergei Pasternak, the Russian virologist. Plus there were others who were simply good doctors and nurses who Jasmine knew Carter rated highly--as much for their compassion and commitment as their skill.
Jasmine was about to ask Tom why they were all here, when she suddenly registered the thirteen places set around the table. The place at the head of the table had just a pad and pen laid out in front of it, but the other twelve had a pad, a pen, and two other items that made Jasmine finally understand Tom's plan. She gasped and felt a rush of blood to her head when she took in the single syringe and glass vial of serum laid out neatly by each place setting. If she looked closely at the vials, she could just make out the handwritten labels bearing what appeared to be the name of each intended recipient.
"So," she said eventually, trying to keep her voice steady, not sure how she felt, "this is what you've been
doing for the last three weeks? Flying around the world recruiting your twelve apostles."
Tom smiled at that. "I prefer to see them more as a jury than apostles. A jury to help decide what we should do with this socalled miracle strain. The twelve are spread around the world. Most are doctors or nurses. But not all of them. The only common bond they all share is that I respect and trust each and every one of them, and their motives."
Tom paused and took Jasmine by the arm, leading her toward the doorway. "The way I see it is that the twelve should meet at regular intervals to keep track of how much good--or harm--we think we're doing. Then, if it's appropriate, we either make more serum and recruit more like--minded members, or keep the number to only twelve, replacing members as they die. And of course if it proves a disaster, we can simply abandon the whole scheme. This way we can at least control the effect the genes might have. Do good without tempting evil, if you like."
They were now by the doorway and Jasmine felt dazed, not sure why she was here. As they entered, all the people looked toward them and smiled, then quickly made their way to stand near the place with their labeled vial.
Jasmine tugged on his sleeve and whispered, "Tom, you've shown me your plan. I don't need to be here anymore."
His big blue eyes opened wide in surprise; then they creased into an incredulous smile.
"I thought it was understood," he said. "The Nazareth genes are as much yours as anybody's." Then he gestured to the one remaining free place, on the right-hand side of his own.
Jasmine turned, and there by the hypodermic was a small glass vial. On the label she could read a name written in Tom's scrawl; it was her name: Dr. Jasmine Washington.
But before she could register the implications of possessing the genes herself, she saw Tom turn to address the others, all still standing by their places.
"Welcome," he said, "and thank you for coming. Before I continue I suggest you all sit down. There's something rather important I want to ask you..."
EPILOGUE
Three months later
T
he tall man dismounted stiffly from his horse. He was not a natural rider, but a horse was useful to get to this remote place. He could have used a helicopter; he had access to almost limitless amounts of money. The numbered accounts in the Geneva banks had shown him that. But he needed to search the area discreetly, and a horse offered him the required flexibility and anonymity.
He checked the ancient map--something he had also found in the bank vaults, just as his Leader had told him--and studied the five rocks rising steeply out of the desert sand. The place was deserted in the merciless sun except for the four men digging into the face of the middle rock, their pickaxes falling in rhythm on the hard surface. They had been working there under his instruction for the last two hours, but had so far found nothing.
He had studied the map intensely from every angle, riding around the rocks, comparing their configuration in reality with their counterparts on parchment. The symbol on the map was in exactly the same spot, relative to the real rocks, as the place the men were now digging. It had to be the right place. Admittedly the entrance had been unused for over a thousand years, but it should still be there and
it should still be serviceable--if the ancient engineers had been correct in their calculations.
He lifted the broad-brimmed Panama from his head and wiped the sweat from his bald head, before replacing it. Blinking through his thick round glasses, he walked toward the men.
Suddenly one of them stood and shouted something he couldn't quite hear. The man, naked to the waist, lifted his pickax high in the air and beckoned to him.
He broke into a run and hurried across the baking sand. "What have you found?" he asked when he eventually reached them.
The stocky man who had wielded the pickax pointed into the hole they had dug. "Father Helix, look!"
Helix looked into the hole and his heart beat faster. There was the unmistakable square shape of a stone lintel; a small doorway. Grabbing one of the men's pickaxes, he stepped into the hole and began to chip away at the rock covering the lintel. But it wasn't rock, only clay, designed to disguise the opening. After a few feverish blows he revealed the four-foot-tall doorway to the tunnel.
"A flashlight! A flashlight!" he demanded. The Brother with a curly, dust-covered black beard stood by an ill-tempered camel, laden down with panniers of equipment. He pulled out three large Maglites. Helix grabbed one of them and started into the opening.
Ahead, in the beam of the Maglite, he could see what was effectively a steep ramp. It dropped at a forty-five-degree angle, with large ridges of rock carved into the floor like vicious, toothshaped steps. There was no handrail to steady him, but every ten yards or so the ramp turned back on itself so if he did fall he would be stopped by the turn. However, he had no intention of falling onto the jagged rocks underfoot.
"Be careful!" he called back to the two men following. "I don't want any of you falling on me."
The air was stale and the incline made his thighs ache, but he was so focused on his descent that he ignored the discomfort.
Ten steps. Turn. Ten steps. Turn.
He tried to count the number of turns to temper his mounting excitement, but lost track after forty. Just as he was beginning to despair of ever reaching the bottom he saw something below him. He felt a tightness in his throat and turned off the flashlight. He could still see it, even this deep down in the rock. The light that twinkled like a beacon in the stygian darkness was unmistakable through the crack in the wall, and its white brilliance told him he wasn't too late.
With new energy rushing to his tired muscles, he switched on his flashlight and hurried down the last ten-yard ramp till he was in a small space, four foot by four. Straight ahead was a stone door, beside it a heavy wooden lever. The lever was unnecessary, because the door had been riven from top to bottom, leaving a gap through which he could just squeeze. Beyond the door he could see the pure white flame burning even more fiercely than he remembered it.
Helix paused then, waiting for the two men gasping with wonder and exertion behind him to arrive. "Stay here!" he said. "When I've checked inside, I'll call you." Then, ignoring the disappointment on their faces, he pushed through the gap. As he entered the Vault of Remembrance he almost stepped into an ugly crack, six inches wide, that ran all the way across the floor. The Sacred Flame issued from the other end of this fissure, illuminating a pile of charred remains that sat in the doorway between the vault and the far antechamber. Helix knew that beyond that antechamber lay the remains of the Sacred Cavern where the sacred light had originally burned. He again thanked God for his deliverance when he remembered how he had escaped in the confusion of the cavern's destruction.
To his right was the covered recess containing the golden tabernacle and relics of Christ. The secret door he had just come through had looked indistinguishable from the wall when he had last been in the vault. Was it only four months ago that he had been here to collect the ritual oils and herbs with which to anoint Maria's body?
He looked around the vault. The rope ladder was gone; only a charred trail of black marked where it had been. But aside from the blackened ceiling and the remains in the far doorway, there was remarkably little damage. None of the artifacts on either side of the fissure had been harmed. Only the mighty sword appeared to have been touched by what had happened here. For some reason it was lying on the floor in the middle of the vault, its blade severed at the very point it crossed the fissure.